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holmesticeTitle: You Say Surrender Like it's a Bad Thing
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solrosan
Author:goddessdster
Characters/Pairings: Alfredo Llamosa, Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, Ken Whitman, Clyde
Rating: Gen
Warnings: Mentions of drug use
Summary: The Third Step is just about making the decision. Just that, and nothing more. So why is Alfredo having such a hard time getting Sherlock to do that?
Author's Note: Takes place soon after the events of “Deja Vu All Over Again.”
I had the best betas and cheerleaders, who shall be named after the reveal!
Happy Solstice,solrosan! I really hope you enjoy my little foray into Alfredo's experiences as Sherlock's sponsor.
You Say Surrender Like it’s a Bad Thing
“We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”
Sherlock doesn’t give up control of anything.
No. Scratch that. Sherlock won’t admit he can lose control of a thing. Of his life. His smarts.
“Man, I know they made you work this while you were still in rehab.”
“It shouldn’t surprise you, Alfredo, that I am quite skilled at knowing exactly what it is others want to hear and providing that for them.”
Alfredo sighs. Pulls his hat off and scratches his head. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it will be pointless. He reaches out to the table and picks up the first thing he feels. Its cold metal heaviness rests in his palm. He feels for ridges and marks along the edge and chooses his tools accordingly.
“What did you say? In rehab.”
He can hear Sherlock, movements precise. He can imagine the way his face will scrunch up while he works. He waits. Ken taught him that, about the beauty of waiting. He feels the lock give just before he hears the identifying click. Reaches for another.
“Not a thing. I nodded.”
“You nodded.”
“Indeed.”
Thing about Sherlock is he can talk circles around almost anyone Alfredo’s ever known, but Alfredo has yet to catch him in a lie. He might to talk around the truth, but he never turns his back on it. So if the man says he nodded, then that’s exactly what he did. Alfredo pulls off his hat and blindfold. “Sherlock, you can’t surrender to a Higher Power by nodding.”
“I didn’t. I never intended to surrender to anything. I nodded because that was the least thing I could do that would satisfy the rulers of that particular holding facility, so that I could leave.” Sherlock pulls off his blindfold and looks at the litter of locks and picks on the table in front of him. Alfredo keeps his face straight as Sherlock sniffs and scowls.
“You’re only ahead by two. I would have worked faster if you hadn’t distracted me.”
“Seriously, man? I distracted you by making you do the work you’re supposed to be doing?” He gestures to the pile of metal in front of him. “I’m only doing this to keep you from getting bored and wandering off like the last time.”
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “That was not ‘wandering off,’ that was a breakthrough on a case. I had just realized the concierge of that hotel had to have been fabricating his --”
“Save it. You already explained that to me.”
“Well then, please do me the simple favor of not needing me to repeat myself.” At this, Sherlock picks up another lock and a slim metal pin, shifting in his seat. It’s subtle but the message is clear.
Alfredo stands and walks into the kitchen. He hears, “I’ll have some tea as well,” but doesn’t answer. He stands over the ridiculously huge stove and focuses on breathing. He inhales through his nose, counts to five, then exhales while still counting. He focuses on the square iron part that sits on top of the gas burner. He can’t remember what it’s called. If he ever knew what it was called, or if that’s one more thing crack took from him.
***
He called Ken when Sherlock had first approached him.
“Nothing like I expected, I’m telling you.”
“What were you expecting?” Ken’s voice is welcoming and gentle. Alfredo had never trusted that someone could be like that and still be a man.
“Not English, for one thing. And he was all, ‘It would be a great honor if you would consider being my sponsor,’ proper and shit.”
“So he sounded like those shows my daughter likes to watch on TV.”
“Yeah, he was, I don’t know, a little jittery though. I’d think he was still using, but he has some professional sober companion with him.”
“Perhaps he was nervous.”
And that’s how Ken is. Always seeing the other side of things. Reminding Alfredo that not everyone is going to see the junkie. The criminal. A thug. Ken was the first sponsor he’d approached who’d said yes without hesitation, who took him into his home and took his late night phone calls, who picked him up from street corners when he was being triggered so hard he could taste the smoke in the back of his throat. Ken was the one who told him he was ready. That he had the patience to sponsor someone else. That it was his responsibility to share what he’d learned with other addicts.
Alfredo never had real responsibility before. Man, he sure had it now.
***
You’re really not supposed to argue with your sponsee. Confront, support, educate, push, challenge, yes. But arguing with a newly recovering addict is like walking into his head, and that is the last place a sponsor needs to be.
***
Sherlock is still sitting at the table, now cleared of locks. He is tap-tap-tapping on his chin. It’s a tic Alfredo is starting to recognize as one of the many ‘Sherlock thinking’ poses. He learned to give him space when he does it. Eventually something is going to come out of that mouth.
“Watson frequently tells me I refrain from explaining enough. Conversely, Detective Bell frequently tells me I explain too much. My attempts to find a solid middle ground are displeasing to everyone, it seems.”
Alfredo flips a chair around and straddles it. Watches the turtle, which is now the centerpiece of the table. “Thing is, this isn’t a case. This is your life, your future.” He watches the expressions shift across Sherlock’s face as quick as his thoughts. He waits.
Sherlock’s hand leaves his chin and gestures in the air between them. Alfredo could watch that forever. He doesn’t know what that says about him. Perhaps that he has already walked too far into Sherlock’s head.
“The work is my life. My life and my future. Without it, I’m--”
“Nobody’s taking it away from you, though. The only thing that took that away was using. The only thing that can take it away again is using.”
He receives a sharp nod in response and knows this is the most he’ll get done today. Ken told him he would figure out his own method, and what seems to work best with Sherlock includes bartering time training Joan, and keeping the heart-to-hearts brief.
“So what’s up with Clyde, man? He looks depressed.”
“It’s getting cold, so he is refraining from eating in preparation for a period of hibernation.”
“Why not get one of those, whatsit? Heat lamps.”
“It’s his natural state to hibernate. Humans have taken great liberties in their attempts to domesticate animals for their amusement, but reptiles will always retain their ancient instincts that pre-date our existence for eons. That should be respected.”
“So we’re respecting Clyde’s ancient reptile instincts?”
“Hmmm.”
“By balancing him on a stack of wooden blocks?” Alfredo watched the little dude’s legs kick uselessly in the air.
“Well, that simply amuses me.”
***
The first car Alfredo helped boost was a total piece of crap. He knew that before he’d even picked the lock, but it was about the challenge of it. The pure beauty of unlocking that door without any help, without a glitch. He was fourteen, and it changed everything for him. The adrenaline made him shaky and high. Hi cousin, Ramiro, high-fived him, laughing, before jumping into the driver’s seat and giving Alfredo a lesson in hot wiring. To Alfredo, Ramiro was God. Cool and sharp with his easy laugh and quick hands. Ramiro taught him everything he knew for a month before cutting him loose.
Knowing what he knows now, Alfredo doesn’t know if he would change a thing. That’s a hard thing to admit, or explain, but it’s true.
***
Joan throws herself back in the seat of the car. The shrill alarm continues, but Alfredo doesn’t notice. Just background noise, similar to blowing horns, or sirens. He can see that it’s driving her crazy, though, so he clicks the button to turn it off.
“I don’t suppose we could practice this time with the alarm off?” she asks.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She rolls her eyes and pushes her hair off her forehead.
“No, really. You train without. You get used to it, then--”
“Then as soon as the alarm is back on, I’m fumbling around, I get it.” She smiles wryly before looking out the driver’s side window. “I guess I never thought training for this would include grand larceny.” Her voice is quiet, uncertain.
“Based on my limited experience with Sherlock, anything is possible.”
She looks at him. “I expected to see you at the house when I got home last night. Everything okay with him?”
“Stubborn,” he says, shaking his head.
“In other news, water is wet.” He can feel her still looking, but turns his attention to the people walking down the street. “How are you doing?”
He smiles. “Look who’s still trying to be a sober companion.” His heart kicks with sudden adrenaline, but his hands, as always, are steady.
Joan turns in her seat so that she’s facing him. “I’m aware of how hard it is to try to keep Sherlock interest. I also know that staying sober is a lifelong job. For some, balancing the two might be difficult.”
Alfredo looks back out the windshield. “Now you sound like my sponsor.”
“Look...” Her pause is heavy. Alfredo resists the urge to open the door and start walking. “I know what it’s like to get sucked into his world, his work. I went into it with my eyes open because I had been living it for weeks. But you didn’t really--”
“Joan, I stole cars for a living when most kids my age were playing basketball. The people I spent most of my time with carried Glocks and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. Putting up with the occasional genius hissyfit isn’t going to send me back to the pipe.” For some reason, saying the words out loud calms him.
“Do you need to talk about it?”
He starts to shake his head; he has a sponsor he talks to. But he likes Joan. Trusts her. “Third step.”
“Ah.”
Alfredo raises an eyebrow.
Joan tilts her head. “That’s an important one, right?”
“The most important. The one recovery hinges on. I mean, that’s what I was told, and what I believe. Sherlock’s in a good place, but it won’t always stay that way. And if he can’t... won’t at least try to find...” He exhales. “Something.” He wipes his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not a failure as a sponsor if he won’t do his part of the work, you know.”
Alfredo nods, telling himself he believes her.
***
He tried church and temples and meditation and prayer. Every time, he felt something just out of his reach pull further away.
Ken was always there with an answer. “It’s not the act, it’s the decision. That’s all you need to do for this step. Make the decision to stop trying to control your own life. Turn it over, Alfredo. The rest will happen.”
Alfredo didn’t know how to let go of control without drugs. Every moment of his life had been about knowing exactly what to expect, how to handle every situation, how to control each outcome. When Ramiro was pinched, figuring out the cars became his God, their secrets were prayers he imagined whispering to him, as his fingers played over the surface of their expensive exteriors in the night. Nights after his first time in rehab, he walked the streets just brushing his fingertips along the vehicles parked there. He never understood why he could touch a car and feel its heart at the core but walk into a church and feel empty.
***
Alfredo finds Sherlock on the third floor standing in front of seven televisions. He seats himself in the chair in front of a tall flatscreen showing what looks like parliamentary proceedings in--
“You speak Russian?”
“Da.”
Alfredo rests an elbow on the arm of the chair and his cheek against his fist. Sherlock’s eyes never stop moving from screen to screen. Alfredo can’t decide which screen to watch, much less all of them at once. Not surprising the man needed heroin to shut the world out.
“I don't believe in the concept of a ‘Higher Power.’”
“I know,” Alfredo says. “We can work with that.”
Sherlock sniffs. Continues staring at one of the screens on his left. Dora the Explorer. Alfredo’s niece has everything Dora: backpack, plates, toys, DVDs. His sister tells him he needs to stop buying it for her, but he can’t help it, after seeing her get so excited about it and hearing her babble in Spanish.
“Still, making the decision to put my life in the care of something in which I do not believe seems a lost cause.” He turns toward Alfredo, expression earnest and puzzled, odd on his face. “Can we not... do this without worrying over these details?”
“Those details are the backbone of this program.”
“The literature indicates that anything can be a Higher Power.”
“You’ve actually been reading the-- of course you have. Uh, yeah.”
“So. My intellect, then.”
“No.”
“It's guided me well.”
“It also convinced you that doing heroin was better than dealing with feelings.”
Sherlock turns back to the televisions, his fingers tap against his thigh. “Fine, then. Watson.”
“No.”
“I’m surprised; I thought you might approve. I detect a certain... attraction? Perhaps if you were to share that with her, she would be better at actually completing the assignments I put forth for the two of you.”
Alfredo holds up a hand to stop that right there. “First off, no. Secondly, I’m not getting involved with my sponsee’s business partner. And finally, you can’t make another person your Higher Power.”
Sherlock twists his face up and mimics Alfredo’s words silently. Alfredo chooses to ignore the twelve year-old in the room and keeps talking to the adult that he knows resides in Sherlock’s head. “You can’t make the work your Higher Power, or your father, or me, or the NYPD. Your Higher Power has to be something you cannot control or lose. That is the point of it. It will never leave you, you will never lose it. No matter what.”
Sherlock stands with his arms crossed, head down. Alfredo knows he was heard. He waits.
“I seem to recall we weren’t scheduled to meet today,” Sherlock says. Then he walks out of the room. Alfredo hears a door slam somewhere in the house.
***
“I can’t do it.”
“You can,” Ken’s voice over the phone is the same as it is in person, over coffee, on random park benches throughout Brooklyn. Alfredo doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to sound that certain about anything.
He tells Ken this. Ken laughs.
“You sound pretty certain about that,” he says.
***
Alfredo remembers his first day out of rehab. Second stint. Final stint, if he has anything to say about it. He wanted to walk and ended up in Manhattan Beach, testing his luck. He forced himself to walk and walk and not look behind the gates or check out security systems, ended up on the sand right as the sun was rising. He remembers being so tired he didn’t know how he was going to make it home, also known as his Ma’s couch, much less stand up to walk again. He had sand in his shoes.
Funny how that’s what he remembers. Not the moment he was distracted from his thoughts by the reflection of the sun off the water. Not the thirty minutes he spent barely breathing as he watched his second clean and free day begin. Not the clarity that carried him into the first meeting he could find that day. Sand, in the cracks of his toes, making his feet itch.
***
He heads downstairs after waiting fifteen minutes for Sherlock to return. Joan is on the couch in the front room, legs curled under her, reading a book. Her face is free of makeup and her hair is in a ponytail. He chooses to ignore what Sherlock so easily detected. He should leave, but--
“He’s on the roof,” she murmurs. She closes the book, marking her place with her finger. Costill’s Treatise on Poisons, he reads. Looks old and dull.
He should leave. But, “This is what he does, right? You would push, he would retreat.”
She nods. “Pretty much.”
“So how did you keep from feeling like you were chasing him around the house?”
Joan is quiet for a minute, chewing her lip. “I don’t know that I didn’t feel that way sometimes. I guess I stopped noticing because when he would stop and listen, actually listen, it--”
“Felt more like success? Like you were getting through?”
She smiles, but not at him. At a memory, possibly of the first time she had felt that way. Alfredo shakes his head.
“I was told once,” she says suddenly, “that newcomers like Sherlock get easily frustrated because they don’t understand the scope of the work involved. I was being advised at the time to be patient and methodical with him.”
Alfredo laughs before he realizes why. “I was just parroting what my sponsor told me. Every time I asked him how he kept putting up with me, that what’s he would say.” He stands, snaps up his vest shut. “Plus, I thought saying that made me seem less threatening to you.”
She smiles up at him, then opens her book to continue reading. “Must have worked.”
Alfredo nods, even though she can’t see him, and walks to the stairs. Something new in the corner of the lock room catches his eye. He smiles to himself while shaking his head, and walks up.
***
Sherlock is sitting in front of the wood and glass box, his face scrunched in concentration. Alfredo sits next to him. He watches the activity of the hive.
“Bees used to feed on other insects, you know. They were predators. It is speculated that they evolved to requiring pollen after consuming prey covered in it.”
Alfredo nods to himself. “That’s pretty cool, man.”
“I’m sure there’s a lesson in there about the never-ending nature of change and adaptation.” Alfredo can hear the peevishness in Sherlock’s voice. He chooses to ignore it.
“There could be, if you wanted.”
They sit together for long minutes watching the hive.
“I like...” Sherlock stops.
Alfredo waits, but nothing. He looks over and sees Sherlock slouched in the chair, hands still in his lap as he stares at what’s in front of him.
“You like bees.”
“Yes.”
Alfredo leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He feels something like hope. “You like studying them and learning from them. You feel calm when you’re up here, don’t you? Like nothing else matters.”
Sherlock looks at him, blinks. Alfredo nods.
“Sherlock, we can make the bees your Higher Power.”
“And what? Make the decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of the bees?” He snorts.
Alfredo inhales through his nose and looks down at his shoes. “I made the decision to do the same with a sunrise, so why not bees? Bees are social and methodical and predictable, right?” He looks over until he sees Sherlock nod. He feels something in his chest loosen. “No matter how much you study them and turn your intellect on them, there’s still some mystery there, or you wouldn’t be so fascinated. The bees, what they mean to you, it's a constant. Like the sunrise is to me.” He can feel Sherlock’s attention now, full force, like he’s wanted for weeks. Alfredo closes his eyes. He feels calm.
He feels ready.
“If that’s a decision you can live with, then we can work with it. But you gotta make the choice, man. You can’t keep walking away from it. Deal?”
Sherlock nods. Alfredo nods. It feels like a damn war-ending treaty. They both slouch in their chairs.
“Saw the tank with the heat lamp downstairs. Thought we were letting Clyde live by his instincts?”
He sees Sherlock’s hand waving out of the corner of his eye.
“Watson became attached, it seems.”
Alfredo laughs softly, and decides sometimes walking into Sherlock Holmes’s head is the most practical thing to do.
End.
Recipient:
solrosanAuthor:
goddessdsterCharacters/Pairings: Alfredo Llamosa, Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, Ken Whitman, Clyde
Rating: Gen
Warnings: Mentions of drug use
Summary: The Third Step is just about making the decision. Just that, and nothing more. So why is Alfredo having such a hard time getting Sherlock to do that?
Author's Note: Takes place soon after the events of “Deja Vu All Over Again.”
I had the best betas and cheerleaders, who shall be named after the reveal!
Happy Solstice,
solrosan! I really hope you enjoy my little foray into Alfredo's experiences as Sherlock's sponsor.You Say Surrender Like it’s a Bad Thing
“We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”
Sherlock doesn’t give up control of anything.
No. Scratch that. Sherlock won’t admit he can lose control of a thing. Of his life. His smarts.
“Man, I know they made you work this while you were still in rehab.”
“It shouldn’t surprise you, Alfredo, that I am quite skilled at knowing exactly what it is others want to hear and providing that for them.”
Alfredo sighs. Pulls his hat off and scratches his head. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it will be pointless. He reaches out to the table and picks up the first thing he feels. Its cold metal heaviness rests in his palm. He feels for ridges and marks along the edge and chooses his tools accordingly.
“What did you say? In rehab.”
He can hear Sherlock, movements precise. He can imagine the way his face will scrunch up while he works. He waits. Ken taught him that, about the beauty of waiting. He feels the lock give just before he hears the identifying click. Reaches for another.
“Not a thing. I nodded.”
“You nodded.”
“Indeed.”
Thing about Sherlock is he can talk circles around almost anyone Alfredo’s ever known, but Alfredo has yet to catch him in a lie. He might to talk around the truth, but he never turns his back on it. So if the man says he nodded, then that’s exactly what he did. Alfredo pulls off his hat and blindfold. “Sherlock, you can’t surrender to a Higher Power by nodding.”
“I didn’t. I never intended to surrender to anything. I nodded because that was the least thing I could do that would satisfy the rulers of that particular holding facility, so that I could leave.” Sherlock pulls off his blindfold and looks at the litter of locks and picks on the table in front of him. Alfredo keeps his face straight as Sherlock sniffs and scowls.
“You’re only ahead by two. I would have worked faster if you hadn’t distracted me.”
“Seriously, man? I distracted you by making you do the work you’re supposed to be doing?” He gestures to the pile of metal in front of him. “I’m only doing this to keep you from getting bored and wandering off like the last time.”
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “That was not ‘wandering off,’ that was a breakthrough on a case. I had just realized the concierge of that hotel had to have been fabricating his --”
“Save it. You already explained that to me.”
“Well then, please do me the simple favor of not needing me to repeat myself.” At this, Sherlock picks up another lock and a slim metal pin, shifting in his seat. It’s subtle but the message is clear.
Alfredo stands and walks into the kitchen. He hears, “I’ll have some tea as well,” but doesn’t answer. He stands over the ridiculously huge stove and focuses on breathing. He inhales through his nose, counts to five, then exhales while still counting. He focuses on the square iron part that sits on top of the gas burner. He can’t remember what it’s called. If he ever knew what it was called, or if that’s one more thing crack took from him.
***
He called Ken when Sherlock had first approached him.
“Nothing like I expected, I’m telling you.”
“What were you expecting?” Ken’s voice is welcoming and gentle. Alfredo had never trusted that someone could be like that and still be a man.
“Not English, for one thing. And he was all, ‘It would be a great honor if you would consider being my sponsor,’ proper and shit.”
“So he sounded like those shows my daughter likes to watch on TV.”
“Yeah, he was, I don’t know, a little jittery though. I’d think he was still using, but he has some professional sober companion with him.”
“Perhaps he was nervous.”
And that’s how Ken is. Always seeing the other side of things. Reminding Alfredo that not everyone is going to see the junkie. The criminal. A thug. Ken was the first sponsor he’d approached who’d said yes without hesitation, who took him into his home and took his late night phone calls, who picked him up from street corners when he was being triggered so hard he could taste the smoke in the back of his throat. Ken was the one who told him he was ready. That he had the patience to sponsor someone else. That it was his responsibility to share what he’d learned with other addicts.
Alfredo never had real responsibility before. Man, he sure had it now.
***
You’re really not supposed to argue with your sponsee. Confront, support, educate, push, challenge, yes. But arguing with a newly recovering addict is like walking into his head, and that is the last place a sponsor needs to be.
***
Sherlock is still sitting at the table, now cleared of locks. He is tap-tap-tapping on his chin. It’s a tic Alfredo is starting to recognize as one of the many ‘Sherlock thinking’ poses. He learned to give him space when he does it. Eventually something is going to come out of that mouth.
“Watson frequently tells me I refrain from explaining enough. Conversely, Detective Bell frequently tells me I explain too much. My attempts to find a solid middle ground are displeasing to everyone, it seems.”
Alfredo flips a chair around and straddles it. Watches the turtle, which is now the centerpiece of the table. “Thing is, this isn’t a case. This is your life, your future.” He watches the expressions shift across Sherlock’s face as quick as his thoughts. He waits.
Sherlock’s hand leaves his chin and gestures in the air between them. Alfredo could watch that forever. He doesn’t know what that says about him. Perhaps that he has already walked too far into Sherlock’s head.
“The work is my life. My life and my future. Without it, I’m--”
“Nobody’s taking it away from you, though. The only thing that took that away was using. The only thing that can take it away again is using.”
He receives a sharp nod in response and knows this is the most he’ll get done today. Ken told him he would figure out his own method, and what seems to work best with Sherlock includes bartering time training Joan, and keeping the heart-to-hearts brief.
“So what’s up with Clyde, man? He looks depressed.”
“It’s getting cold, so he is refraining from eating in preparation for a period of hibernation.”
“Why not get one of those, whatsit? Heat lamps.”
“It’s his natural state to hibernate. Humans have taken great liberties in their attempts to domesticate animals for their amusement, but reptiles will always retain their ancient instincts that pre-date our existence for eons. That should be respected.”
“So we’re respecting Clyde’s ancient reptile instincts?”
“Hmmm.”
“By balancing him on a stack of wooden blocks?” Alfredo watched the little dude’s legs kick uselessly in the air.
“Well, that simply amuses me.”
***
The first car Alfredo helped boost was a total piece of crap. He knew that before he’d even picked the lock, but it was about the challenge of it. The pure beauty of unlocking that door without any help, without a glitch. He was fourteen, and it changed everything for him. The adrenaline made him shaky and high. Hi cousin, Ramiro, high-fived him, laughing, before jumping into the driver’s seat and giving Alfredo a lesson in hot wiring. To Alfredo, Ramiro was God. Cool and sharp with his easy laugh and quick hands. Ramiro taught him everything he knew for a month before cutting him loose.
Knowing what he knows now, Alfredo doesn’t know if he would change a thing. That’s a hard thing to admit, or explain, but it’s true.
***
Joan throws herself back in the seat of the car. The shrill alarm continues, but Alfredo doesn’t notice. Just background noise, similar to blowing horns, or sirens. He can see that it’s driving her crazy, though, so he clicks the button to turn it off.
“I don’t suppose we could practice this time with the alarm off?” she asks.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She rolls her eyes and pushes her hair off her forehead.
“No, really. You train without. You get used to it, then--”
“Then as soon as the alarm is back on, I’m fumbling around, I get it.” She smiles wryly before looking out the driver’s side window. “I guess I never thought training for this would include grand larceny.” Her voice is quiet, uncertain.
“Based on my limited experience with Sherlock, anything is possible.”
She looks at him. “I expected to see you at the house when I got home last night. Everything okay with him?”
“Stubborn,” he says, shaking his head.
“In other news, water is wet.” He can feel her still looking, but turns his attention to the people walking down the street. “How are you doing?”
He smiles. “Look who’s still trying to be a sober companion.” His heart kicks with sudden adrenaline, but his hands, as always, are steady.
Joan turns in her seat so that she’s facing him. “I’m aware of how hard it is to try to keep Sherlock interest. I also know that staying sober is a lifelong job. For some, balancing the two might be difficult.”
Alfredo looks back out the windshield. “Now you sound like my sponsor.”
“Look...” Her pause is heavy. Alfredo resists the urge to open the door and start walking. “I know what it’s like to get sucked into his world, his work. I went into it with my eyes open because I had been living it for weeks. But you didn’t really--”
“Joan, I stole cars for a living when most kids my age were playing basketball. The people I spent most of my time with carried Glocks and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. Putting up with the occasional genius hissyfit isn’t going to send me back to the pipe.” For some reason, saying the words out loud calms him.
“Do you need to talk about it?”
He starts to shake his head; he has a sponsor he talks to. But he likes Joan. Trusts her. “Third step.”
“Ah.”
Alfredo raises an eyebrow.
Joan tilts her head. “That’s an important one, right?”
“The most important. The one recovery hinges on. I mean, that’s what I was told, and what I believe. Sherlock’s in a good place, but it won’t always stay that way. And if he can’t... won’t at least try to find...” He exhales. “Something.” He wipes his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not a failure as a sponsor if he won’t do his part of the work, you know.”
Alfredo nods, telling himself he believes her.
***
He tried church and temples and meditation and prayer. Every time, he felt something just out of his reach pull further away.
Ken was always there with an answer. “It’s not the act, it’s the decision. That’s all you need to do for this step. Make the decision to stop trying to control your own life. Turn it over, Alfredo. The rest will happen.”
Alfredo didn’t know how to let go of control without drugs. Every moment of his life had been about knowing exactly what to expect, how to handle every situation, how to control each outcome. When Ramiro was pinched, figuring out the cars became his God, their secrets were prayers he imagined whispering to him, as his fingers played over the surface of their expensive exteriors in the night. Nights after his first time in rehab, he walked the streets just brushing his fingertips along the vehicles parked there. He never understood why he could touch a car and feel its heart at the core but walk into a church and feel empty.
***
Alfredo finds Sherlock on the third floor standing in front of seven televisions. He seats himself in the chair in front of a tall flatscreen showing what looks like parliamentary proceedings in--
“You speak Russian?”
“Da.”
Alfredo rests an elbow on the arm of the chair and his cheek against his fist. Sherlock’s eyes never stop moving from screen to screen. Alfredo can’t decide which screen to watch, much less all of them at once. Not surprising the man needed heroin to shut the world out.
“I don't believe in the concept of a ‘Higher Power.’”
“I know,” Alfredo says. “We can work with that.”
Sherlock sniffs. Continues staring at one of the screens on his left. Dora the Explorer. Alfredo’s niece has everything Dora: backpack, plates, toys, DVDs. His sister tells him he needs to stop buying it for her, but he can’t help it, after seeing her get so excited about it and hearing her babble in Spanish.
“Still, making the decision to put my life in the care of something in which I do not believe seems a lost cause.” He turns toward Alfredo, expression earnest and puzzled, odd on his face. “Can we not... do this without worrying over these details?”
“Those details are the backbone of this program.”
“The literature indicates that anything can be a Higher Power.”
“You’ve actually been reading the-- of course you have. Uh, yeah.”
“So. My intellect, then.”
“No.”
“It's guided me well.”
“It also convinced you that doing heroin was better than dealing with feelings.”
Sherlock turns back to the televisions, his fingers tap against his thigh. “Fine, then. Watson.”
“No.”
“I’m surprised; I thought you might approve. I detect a certain... attraction? Perhaps if you were to share that with her, she would be better at actually completing the assignments I put forth for the two of you.”
Alfredo holds up a hand to stop that right there. “First off, no. Secondly, I’m not getting involved with my sponsee’s business partner. And finally, you can’t make another person your Higher Power.”
Sherlock twists his face up and mimics Alfredo’s words silently. Alfredo chooses to ignore the twelve year-old in the room and keeps talking to the adult that he knows resides in Sherlock’s head. “You can’t make the work your Higher Power, or your father, or me, or the NYPD. Your Higher Power has to be something you cannot control or lose. That is the point of it. It will never leave you, you will never lose it. No matter what.”
Sherlock stands with his arms crossed, head down. Alfredo knows he was heard. He waits.
“I seem to recall we weren’t scheduled to meet today,” Sherlock says. Then he walks out of the room. Alfredo hears a door slam somewhere in the house.
***
“I can’t do it.”
“You can,” Ken’s voice over the phone is the same as it is in person, over coffee, on random park benches throughout Brooklyn. Alfredo doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to sound that certain about anything.
He tells Ken this. Ken laughs.
“You sound pretty certain about that,” he says.
***
Alfredo remembers his first day out of rehab. Second stint. Final stint, if he has anything to say about it. He wanted to walk and ended up in Manhattan Beach, testing his luck. He forced himself to walk and walk and not look behind the gates or check out security systems, ended up on the sand right as the sun was rising. He remembers being so tired he didn’t know how he was going to make it home, also known as his Ma’s couch, much less stand up to walk again. He had sand in his shoes.
Funny how that’s what he remembers. Not the moment he was distracted from his thoughts by the reflection of the sun off the water. Not the thirty minutes he spent barely breathing as he watched his second clean and free day begin. Not the clarity that carried him into the first meeting he could find that day. Sand, in the cracks of his toes, making his feet itch.
***
He heads downstairs after waiting fifteen minutes for Sherlock to return. Joan is on the couch in the front room, legs curled under her, reading a book. Her face is free of makeup and her hair is in a ponytail. He chooses to ignore what Sherlock so easily detected. He should leave, but--
“He’s on the roof,” she murmurs. She closes the book, marking her place with her finger. Costill’s Treatise on Poisons, he reads. Looks old and dull.
He should leave. But, “This is what he does, right? You would push, he would retreat.”
She nods. “Pretty much.”
“So how did you keep from feeling like you were chasing him around the house?”
Joan is quiet for a minute, chewing her lip. “I don’t know that I didn’t feel that way sometimes. I guess I stopped noticing because when he would stop and listen, actually listen, it--”
“Felt more like success? Like you were getting through?”
She smiles, but not at him. At a memory, possibly of the first time she had felt that way. Alfredo shakes his head.
“I was told once,” she says suddenly, “that newcomers like Sherlock get easily frustrated because they don’t understand the scope of the work involved. I was being advised at the time to be patient and methodical with him.”
Alfredo laughs before he realizes why. “I was just parroting what my sponsor told me. Every time I asked him how he kept putting up with me, that what’s he would say.” He stands, snaps up his vest shut. “Plus, I thought saying that made me seem less threatening to you.”
She smiles up at him, then opens her book to continue reading. “Must have worked.”
Alfredo nods, even though she can’t see him, and walks to the stairs. Something new in the corner of the lock room catches his eye. He smiles to himself while shaking his head, and walks up.
***
Sherlock is sitting in front of the wood and glass box, his face scrunched in concentration. Alfredo sits next to him. He watches the activity of the hive.
“Bees used to feed on other insects, you know. They were predators. It is speculated that they evolved to requiring pollen after consuming prey covered in it.”
Alfredo nods to himself. “That’s pretty cool, man.”
“I’m sure there’s a lesson in there about the never-ending nature of change and adaptation.” Alfredo can hear the peevishness in Sherlock’s voice. He chooses to ignore it.
“There could be, if you wanted.”
They sit together for long minutes watching the hive.
“I like...” Sherlock stops.
Alfredo waits, but nothing. He looks over and sees Sherlock slouched in the chair, hands still in his lap as he stares at what’s in front of him.
“You like bees.”
“Yes.”
Alfredo leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He feels something like hope. “You like studying them and learning from them. You feel calm when you’re up here, don’t you? Like nothing else matters.”
Sherlock looks at him, blinks. Alfredo nods.
“Sherlock, we can make the bees your Higher Power.”
“And what? Make the decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of the bees?” He snorts.
Alfredo inhales through his nose and looks down at his shoes. “I made the decision to do the same with a sunrise, so why not bees? Bees are social and methodical and predictable, right?” He looks over until he sees Sherlock nod. He feels something in his chest loosen. “No matter how much you study them and turn your intellect on them, there’s still some mystery there, or you wouldn’t be so fascinated. The bees, what they mean to you, it's a constant. Like the sunrise is to me.” He can feel Sherlock’s attention now, full force, like he’s wanted for weeks. Alfredo closes his eyes. He feels calm.
He feels ready.
“If that’s a decision you can live with, then we can work with it. But you gotta make the choice, man. You can’t keep walking away from it. Deal?”
Sherlock nods. Alfredo nods. It feels like a damn war-ending treaty. They both slouch in their chairs.
“Saw the tank with the heat lamp downstairs. Thought we were letting Clyde live by his instincts?”
He sees Sherlock’s hand waving out of the corner of his eye.
“Watson became attached, it seems.”
Alfredo laughs softly, and decides sometimes walking into Sherlock Holmes’s head is the most practical thing to do.
End.
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no subject
Date: 2013-06-16 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 12:46 am (UTC)Thank you for your help.
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Date: 2013-06-16 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-06-16 07:36 am (UTC)Thank you so much, it's lovely! I really like Alfredo's POV (Alfredo rally needs more love) and the tie-ins with Ken. It must be a real hardship to be a sponsor for Sherlock. Sherlock's voice rang true and I could hear him say all his lines.
This was a perfect relationship study of Alfredo and Sherlock's relationship! Again, thank you so, so much!
(and Sherlock bought Clyde a lamp in the end? D'aaaw :D)
no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 12:50 am (UTC)I'm so glad you liked this. I was so nervous! I know it didn't fit too well with what you asked for, but it was the story that demanded to be told. It pleases me that it worked for you, specifically, as it was for you.
Thank you!
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Date: 2013-06-16 07:34 pm (UTC)So - yes. This fic. It made me squeal.
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